ThirtyFour
by TheLocket
Summary: When Dr. Maureen Thoren is called in by an old friend, she knows -- as his father hopes -- that she may be just what the youngest Malfoy needs. But no one understands what they're getting themselves into, least of all her unsuspecting niece, Lucy.
1. First Session, Patient 34

**First Session, Patient #34**

The floors are carpeted with a maroon Oriental rug. The dark mahogany of the single chair before the similar wooden desk has its feet buried in the weave of the carpet.

Behind the desk, a dark haired woman of about 35 years is filling out paperwork, her writing neat and flowing, brisk and steady. At the firm, single knock on the door, she looks up over her reading glasses, her amber eyes locking on the door.

"Come in," she calls, and returns her eyes to the paperwork. Her voice is steady and calm, the deeper tones unhurried despite the ticking of the clock. The steady whisking of the ballpoint pen across the paper continues without pause.

Her eyes skim quickly across the page as her hand moves, seemingly upon its own accord, down the page, filling in neat boxes with uniform cursive. Those strangely-bright eyes, noticeably lighter than the deep tones of her curly brown hair, ostensibly miss the entrance of the newcomer. But they quickly flick up between glances across the page, to take in the slouch of the boy; the nervous fiddling of the left hand with a ring upon the right hand; the suspicious gray eyes that survey the room from beneath blonde bangs.

The room is silent, but for the steady ticking of the mahogany clock on the mahogany desk beside the two mahogany chairs, facing each other, one on either side of the desk, and the steady whisking of the pen across the paperwork. The boy – young man, really – throws himself slopping into the chair across from the desk. His purposely-wanton movements knock the chair askew.

The writing stops.

Silence, only the steady ticking the clock.

Fearfully, he finally meets her gaze as she stares evenly at him over the rimless reading glasses. Something in those amber eyes embarrasses him. Chagrined, he shifts the chair back to its former position and seats himself more respectably. His eyebrows pull into a surly expression of resentment, but he remains still for a moment.

Again she continues writing, flips a page – the sound is startlingly loud – and the blue pen continues its progress across the next page.

Now that the amber glance is gone, the young man fidgets. He places his elbow on the armrest, shifts his weight, taps his foot, crosses his legs. His eyes never rest on any object, but jump around the room. After a few moments, a few more meaningless movements, the eyes glance quizzically up at his restlessness, and he opens his mouth to speak. The yellowish eyes seem to narrow slightly; the air meant for words, for exclamation, for communication, is now worthless and used instead for a frustrated sigh, a poorly-disguised submission.

He is still as the writing continues. A page is flipped, and, after a time, another. The minute hand on the clock continues its inexorable progress around the face of the clock.

Now he is staring at her angrily, his silver eyes resentful beneath the sheer curtain of his golden hair. Sulking. As though daring her to turn those eyes upon him again. But they remain on the black and white page on the mahogany desk.

Tick goes the clock, whisking the pen across the paper.

Finally, the minute hand reaches the hour. The pen is placed carefully, deliberately, on the page. Reading glasses are removed and hang around her neck on the golden chain.

"Our session is over."

The calm, husky voice is gentle breaking the silence and is at home with the ticking. The boy stands to leave, now shifting his jaw in suppressed anger.

"Return next week, Mr. Malfoy."

He nods reticently, avoiding that strangely golden glance.

The door closes behind him, but the sound is muffled by the heavy maroon Oriental rug.


	2. Call from the Parents 7

**Call from the Parents #7**

The writing has stopped and the woman with the dark hair and strangely light eyes behind the desk massages her temple to ward off a headache. She doesn't flinch as a fire suddenly ignites in the fireplace across from her desk.

"Maureen," comes an angry voice from the grate.

"Yes, Lucius," she returns, her voice as soothing as always, the tones just as calm and unhurried.

"My son just got home," the icily furious voice continues.

"That was quick," interrupts the therapist, slowly standing from her chair and walking over to the fireplace. There, she can see the blonde-haired head engulfed in the flames.

"He took the Floo Network from the Embassy," Lucius explains, and then continues: "I asked him what you talked about today."

"Ah," Maureen the Therapist intones, completely unflustered.

Expecting a prompt, Lucius hesitates before angrily declaring: "He said nothing."

"Lucius," the dark haired woman murmurs, "what do you want?"

"I want you to help him, by Merlin! I want you to do what Narcissa and I cannot do, I want you to fix him!"

She sighs.

"There is nothing wrong with him, Lucius."

"Like hell there is!" His ringing exclamation, although muted by the carpeting and somber wall hangings and portraits on the walls – which are moving – is still too loud for the calm, dark room.

After meeting the amber eyes for a long moment his expression softens and his tone quiets. Penitent, he pleads, "Just – just make them stop. Make the dreams stop."

Maureen's eyes crinkle as her face softens into an almost-smile, smelling victory. If only the son could accept defeat as quickly as the father.

"I am trying." Her voice is calm; it does not betray her smugness at backing Lucius into a corner, although her golden eyes seem to glow with self-satisfaction. "Let me do this my way."

It is out of worry for his son, and not lack of cunning that the man is suddenly meek and nods humbly, glancing down at the carpeting in self-reflection.

However, after a second thought the eyes become icy and flash upwards towards the comforting warmth of the amber eyes.

"I am trusting you, Maureen." The threat is implicit in his tone; the woman barely manages to suppress the shudder that threatens to shatter her calm. And then the fire is suddenly extinguished.

After a moment, a ruby woolen shawl is located and removed from the closet and wrapped around the thin shoulders. The black boots form a path across the Oriental carpet to the desk, and the cold silence is filled with the gentle whisking of a blue ballpoint pen across black and white forms.


	3. Waiting Room, Encounter 2

**Waiting Room, Encounter #2**

It's Tuesday, 5:45. Lucy has flat-ironed her hair. The auburn hair falls across her delicate shoulders. She is self-conscious, running her red manicured fingers through it. The job pays well, pays better than baby-sitting. Lucky her aunt is a therapist. Lucky that Aunt Maureen needed a receptionist, part time, when Lucy wasn't in school.

But all the flat-ironing, the twenty-three dollar manicure (plus tax) is not to impress some quarterback on her school's football team. All the primping is not so that some guitar player in her neighborhood's teen rock band would look a little closer.

Last Tuesday, Lucy had a shock. A new patient came. He was surprisingly attractive for a nutcase – those were the very words that she told her best friend, Libby, on their nightly phone call later that night. When she asked for his name, he had replied, "Drake Malcolm" is a surly tone. He took the clipboard full of paperwork from her trembling hands without another word.

From her desk, she had surreptitiously watched him fill out the form, watched his strong hands turn the pages, watched his silver eyes slide across the page. During those formative five minutes, she had determined that she was in love with him. Or, at least in love with his body.

She's been thinking about him. She almost misses signing Mrs. Lewis (depression) in for her 5:30 appointment, due partially to the patient's lack of timeliness and her fantasies over that Drake boy.

Not one to disappoint – or to have the excuse of traffic as a wizard (but Lucy doesn't know that) – "Drake" shows up precisely at 6:29.

"Hello," Lucy murmurs when he approaches the desk. It is as though she is trying to make her voice alluring. He doesn't seem to notice. She signs his name with a flourish, fighting the urge to draw a large heart around the name.

"Hi," he responds awkwardly, standing at the front of the desk. "Uhm..."

She watches him, suddenly cautious. Why could he be seeing her aunt? Her teenage mind had spun off fantasies – partier, playboy, alcoholic, druggie – but now he just seems to be antisocial and inept at the infrequent social interactions.

"No paperwork today," she says quickly, guessing at the question.

"Yes," he replies, nodding subconsciously, his silver eyes not meeting her inviting brown.

He slinks off to a chair in the waiting room, next to the potted plant in the corner.

"Drake?" she calls. He doesn't respond. Lucy makes a mental note: does not respond to his own name.

"Hey, Drake," she tries again. Finally, he looks up, confused. After a moment, his eyes harden with understanding and anger. She does not know.

"Mrs. Lewis was late today."

He looks at her, his eyes empty of understanding.

"She has the appointment before you. Dr. Thoren won't be ready for you for at least another twenty minutes." Lucy speaks as if to Jessica, the five-year-old girl she babysits on Saturdays.

She has gotten through to him at last. He nods, and settles deeper into the chair, content to stare at the green leaves that are invading his chair's armrest.

Hurt, Lucy examines her nails. She has wasted a day's pay. He barely looked at her, let alone her hands.


	4. Second Session, Patient 34

**Second Session, Patient #34**

After Mrs. Lewis exits, bobbing obsequiously, Draco slides into the room, his stature as churlish and suspicious as last week; his shoulders are hunched as though expecting a rebuff, (physical or vocal) and his body language is defensive: arms crossing his body, eyes darting around, fingers twitching from the emerald ring to the wand concealed in his jacket.

Her inspection complete, the therapist ostensibly returns her attention to the paperwork. He is not surprised as he was last time; there is no anger as he watches her ignore him, but rather triumph. She has confirmed his suspicions. He was proven correct. Yet again, she dismisses his presence.

This excuses his behavior. So he is not ashamed of his forethought or afraid of the unexpected. This session is exactly what he expects: nothing.

Maureen watches him as he sits. At first, he sits neatly, careful not to disrupt the chair. He has learned that such careless and violent actions are not acceptable. His parents should have taught him that. Temper-tantrums are not solutions. He must have been one helluva kid, Maureen tells herself, biting back a grin that would expose her for her charlatan-calm.

A book is scrounged from within his jacket. He opens it to the first page, flips past the dedication page and title page, and then begins reading. Maureen has not stopped her writing. The whisking of the pen he takes as a sign of her toleration of his actions.

The clock ticks, the pen whisks, and the pages flip steadily, constantly.

Now his posture is more relaxed; the ankle of his left foot rests on his right knee and he leans back. Those amber eyes are quickly averted, as he looks up quickly to judge her reaction. He raises his eyebrows at her indifference, and once again returns his eyes to the book. Daring her to object. Daring her to say something.

He realizes that she has pursed her lips, pressed them together to restrain her words. He falsely assumes that he has won. He sinks deeper into the chair; now his back touches the maroon cushion, his foot slides across the carpet as his leg extends, lounging.

The clock reads five until the hour. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, no longer able to read, his eyes watching her curiously, unsettled. The blonde eyebrows draw together in a scowl. She appears unaware of his examination of her behavior; the cursive is just as flawless as her calm expression.

He closes the book. The clock ticks, but now it is not reaching a goal; it is spending his father's gold, the sickles and galleons ticking away with the second hand.

He is frustrated, but he will not give in.

Neither will she. She had been told that he would not talk. She would make him. Unlike those nine therapists in London, Maureen would not give in to his immature demands for attention.

The five minutes, equal to approximately three and one-half knuts, are wasted by silent stubborn stares.

"Our session is over; return next week, Mr. Malfoy."

He closes the door carefully behind him, so that there is no sound for the carpet to stifle.


	5. Third Session, Patient 34

**Third Session, Patient #34**

The stack of completed forms never seems to get higher. She finishes twenty-one sheets, front and back.

Draco completes the book and begins another.

The silence is stale, unable to be filled by the whisking or the ticking or the flipping.

As he leaves, he kicks the chair, knocking it out of kilter. The sound is loud and jarring, but she does not even look up from her pages.

He stomps off, and leaves the door open behind him.


	6. Fourth Session, Patient 34

**Fourth Session, Patient #34**

There was no fourth session.


	7. Call from the Parents 8

**Call from the Parents #8**

There is no more paperwork on her desk. She sits, sipping her black coffee, feet up on the desk. When the fireplace ignites, she watches it uninterestedly. It is Narcissa's semblance that is upon her grate.

"Draco did not come to today's session," she admits to the desk, looking upwards to meet the blase glance of the therapist.

"Yes, I am aware of that," she responds calmly.

"He told me he did not feel it was necessary," Narcissa explains haughtily, shaken by unshakeableness of the yellow-eyed woman.

"But it was."

The contradiction makes the ticking of the clock sound ominous.

"Allow me to judge, rather than your son, Mrs. Malfoy." The tone is smooth and slow as always, unflustered, unperturbed.

The fire is quickly extinguished and the smell of smoke lingers in the air.


	8. Waiting Room, Encounter 3

**Waiting Room, Encounter #3**

Lucy was disappointed last week. She had waited for a flash of gold that would signify his entrance, and she continued waiting all night, staring at her chipping manicure.

This Tuesday, she was carefully hopeful, not wanting to be disappointed. Superstitious, she had removed her nail polish and wore her hair loosely wavy, as it was naturally, in a knot at the back of her neck. Maybe if she did not prepare for him to come, he would.

One minute before the half-hour, the door swung open. Lucy fought to not look up, but out of the corner of her eye she saw the blonde hair and quickly glanced up.

He comes to the desk, as always, and stands there awkwardly, moodily, churlishly, staring off into space and spinning the ring on his right hand with his left. His left foot taps an uneven tempo on the carpeted floors.

"Hello," he begins, his polite tone sounding strained, forced. He meets her eyes for a moment, leaving her breathless. She can only think of two words: Holy shit. His eyes are silver, captivating. She does not acknowledge how strangely and how quickly her infatuation formed, but is preoccupied by disguising her semi-breathlessness as sultry sighs.

"Shall you sign me in?" he asks, sounding confused and somewhat disgusted by her wordlessness. The cadences of the questions – distinctly British and refined – make her heart jump.

She nods, and shakily scrawls his name.

He exiles himself to the seat by the plant, unaware of her love for him.

Lucy closes her eyes, half in humiliation, half in the ecstacy of the enamored.


	9. Fifth Session, Patient 34

**Fifth Session, Patient #34**

Somehow there is a new stack of forms on the desk. Draco enters, as always, to the scrawling of the pen.

However, it is his turn to be the inspector. He watches her as the first five minutes waste away slowly.

The scowl seems to be carved into a face of stone; his grey eyes do not shift.

After fifteen minutes, he can't take it any more.

"My mother wouldn't let me bring a book." An explanation. He mentally kicks himself for speaking. He does not want to be explaining himself to this somberly-dressed, curly-haired woman who was chummy with his father so many years ago. His voice is too loud, angry. He glares at her as she looks up slowly.

"Would you like to borrow one of mine?" she offers.

He stares at her, mistrusting, skeptical.

"No."

And the conversation is over. She returns to her writing, he to his glaring.

The hour finds him sitting in the chair, arms crossed.

"Our session is over; return next week, Mr. Malfoy."

He does not move, but continues staring. She meets his eyes and it becomes a staring contest for a moment, until she removes her reading glasses.

"Draco," she begins. He flinches at the informality, and she back-pedals quickly.

"Your mother is expecting you back soon." Her tone is simple and slow, as always, but there is also something implicitly commanding in the statement.

Silence.

The therapist sighs, puts down the pen, and watches him.

His silver eyes narrow in fury and suspicion, but her amber eyes remain wide, the expression almost innocent, prepared, calm.

A knock on the door disrupts there silent battle of obstinacy.

"Aunt Maureen," Lucy chirps, bounding into the room after a quick moment, "shouldn't we–" She breaks off abruptly, as Draco swivels in his chair to watch her chipper entrance, his expression surly.

"Oh... hi, Drake," she murmurs, her tone subdued, a blush darkening her goldenly-tanned face.

"Hello," he responds, somewhat less sullenly, nodding politely.

The aunt notes her niece's expression and her patient's unwilling chivalry.

The silence is not as angry or emotionally-charged as before, but rather awkward.

"I'll just..." she begins, before quickly ducking out the door and shutting it gingerly behind her.

Then she flees to hide behind her counter, burying her burning face in her unmanicured hands, embarrassedly fingering the messy bun, biting her lip in agitation and self-conscious shame.

After a moment, Draco raises his eyebrow at the strange entrance, shakes his head to clear it, and then recalls that he is being watched. His defensive posture intensifies; his arms cross tighter across his chest like a shield, and his chin juts out sulkily.

He notices, however, that he has finally shattered his therapist's calm. Her amber eyes have become cold. This change frightens him. When she raises her hand, he flinches, expecting a cuff or dig, but she points at the door.

"Next week," she repeats, her calm returning or her fury masked.

When he passes the desk in the lobby, he sees the top of Lucy's head from behind the counter.

"Uhm... goodbye," he offers awkwardly, his silver eyes careful and bemused. Lucy pretends not to hear, but he knows that she does, and a little smirk tugs at his lips.


End file.
